The Underground Librarian

What cats do before meeting curiosity sellers….

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    • Writing February 21, 2017
      I grew disillusioned about editing the complete document before the end of February. In order to keep with old promises and new writing plans, I am providing the first five pages of text. The document I started with is quickly growing to yield more than thirty pages. If I continue in this vein to post everything, […]
    • Cooking, As Requested February 18, 2017
      Friday, February 17, 2017 6:13 p.m. The crux in enjoyment is the bowl. Make it big and beautiful. 2-3 ounces of Mung Bean noodles (vermicelli). Prepare it by soaking the noodles in boiled water for 10-20 minutes. Return the kettle to the flame with more water. When the whistle blows for the second time pour 2 […]
    • Writing February 17, 2017
      Shrine of the Black Madonna and Grottos   First, I toyed with the idea. Then I almost let it devolve into oblivion. What caught me before I too […]
    • Tip Jar: No Cost or Tariff February 12, 2017
      I am posting for someone’s sake, not my own. My ultimate hope is that others will find todays blog useful. Before I begin the matter , let me frame in a quote from friend, “You’re damn if you do, damned if you don’t.” From friend I found out it is a common practice between mother-daughter, father-son, mother-son, and father-daughter to commit murders. […] […]
    • Poor #5 February 9, 2017
      Poor #5: Widdershin Sun Widdershin Sun, Stars plumb the earth within. The steeple chimes “we come from stars And shall return” before the earth is done. E’en when fooled the darkness is replete; I prefer to meet the devil on two feet. Widdershin Sun Stars plumb the earth within. The steeple chimes “We come from […]
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Posted by Tespid on February 21, 2017


I grew disillusioned about editing the complete document before the end of February. In order to keep with old promises and new writing plans, I am providing the first five pages of text. The document I started with is quickly growing to yield more than thirty pages. If I continue in this vein to post everything, I will have no surprises to provide come publication, should that ever happen. As a result, I will be holding back from now on. Yet, I still would like to keep you on this journey, so I will continue to write and post in this vein.

Arcane III: The Empress

Inside will have to do. The rain drops too heavy and too fast to confuse for a gentle refreshing spray to land on my face.  Waiting out the downpour until dry damp takes over under the awning seems the best approach to inhaling late autumn’s moisture. I watched the storm cascade in from the North. The dark grey clouds scampered across the eastern face of the backyard as I clamored for shelter from the cold winds. For me, memories of late autumn always dictate how and when water will descend from the sky. Winter is only a few weeks away and I do not think I could bear under the crisp chill of snow. Rain is all I want. I am dehydrated to the bone no matter how much water I drink. My fingers snap like breaking the back of an oak tree branch. Late autumn tinder for the fire is how I a drying out. Standing in the deluge tonight may either kill me or herald the beginning of my rebirth.

As for inspiration from the storm, I will confine my observations, studies, and songs to my bedroom. In there, concentration is not foreign to me. That simple joy resounds in my heart despite the room’s acoustics channeling the conversations of inhabitants in this and other houses. The interchange between houses echoes everything. For any occasion it does not matter whether I whisper under my breath or scream buried inside my mouth at least once a day. Today, sadness, engendered by the rain, dictates something other than coddling the voice with water or sweet tea. The lament of a lesser woman forms at the back of my throat nestled behind infected and cracked molars. It does not matter. I peel out in a squeal and I regret being flat before I sing the second word:

Empress sit by the counting tree,

Empress how will you answer to faces three?

Empress, tell me, how do you plea?

Heed not the darkness, mind you Hecate rules.

Tell me in the light

Why, for me, aren’t you alright?


I pulled the card months ago. It hangs on the wall next to the bed. Posting cards on the wall is the next best step to seeding my mind for dreams and priming the unconscious for creative writing. Sitting down on the bed I turn then unhook the clip from the wall. This season, here is my charge posturing in regal elegance and crowned as a rite celebrated of maturity. Empress is clean, fertile, and accepted. From my understanding what I see of her is a portrait displayed between blinded lights. Her beauty and our expectations dissuade from inherent darkness. This happen to such a high degree that even the lingering shade cast by attending trees is important to rooting an understanding of this visage. For now, I take this card as a snapshot. The design is a view of an emotional climax that directs our attention elsewhere thereby denying what ugliness of character dwells within. The object in the frame cannot be the only presence defined. In the Empress’s shadow, the presence suggested alludes to the conventions that the mind clings, the addictions that the body inherits, and the drive of sparked intuition. All these constructs and their varied combinations build a cache of knowledge that attends to the appearance and folly of my grand dame.

Honestly, for my bravado of accusations, I must comment that I have not stood in her presence long let alone spent time in the casting light of her crown. My responses are immediate and come from the gut. My rationale may hold no water except to explain some violent reaction at the sight of the card. I completely confess I have briefly read the interpretations as written in several manuals and books. Still, I yearn for a personal intuitive response that keys me into studies genuinely. Now, as a precaution to being consumed by the imagery’s patience to reveal its true nature, I tend toward Christ and Hecate’s senility for consistency and rest. Empress works me harder than any other card I have studied. Frequently I can make a connection and garner knowledge from the card’s visual teaching. It has been an hour and I sit confused probing her repose in the throne of begetting. I know one observation to be more than real. At first glance, she is fertility power at full potential. Meanwhile, I shy away because I have always seen how the arcane, high and low, manifest in my life. I pull back and build a wall between the fullness of Empress within and without the shadows I accuse her to wield. As of my biological clock, I am barren and dry for another month. There is now way that she could know menopause terrorizes my mind, strength, and womb. How could she know I have wanted a child for some time?  By choice, education took the reins for my life’s direction. I came to know to late what timeliness demands of a woman’s body for childbearing much too late. I still have yet to work those shadows from dark moons and empty beds. For now, I sit in hatred and fear of Empress. I do not want this lesson. I fear spiritual death and a loud proclamation of ineptitude. Still, I need resolve my anger with this face of the Goddess manifested. But where do I start? I am livid for not being able to see myself in her. I want to know. I want to know what to do now. What choices do I have? I fear none. Where are the rites for a dried womb? I refuse to be relegated to the edge of service to attend others families like a slave. I want my own to nurture and read. I cringe at her fecundity and my selfishness. I must try to remember to be humble and serve where needed, but I can still have a life other than that of a “mammy”. Is it a sacrifice of my previous life to come to a different fullness with man and child? Selfishness dare I test it?


A digression suits these next thoughts. I came to this understanding by making associations with numbers and geometry. Empress as a three, is a designation of the of birth new ideas. The beginning is one point sustaining in isolation.  As a result, one is an understanding complimented by extreme paranoia. The idea exists, but there is no reassurance.  Individuality succumbs to community formed in games of attention, conceit, concession.  A second point in the distance forms a relationship with the first in continual interaction. Two identities may struggle for independence, but for the sake of proximity a regular dialogue takes place to give deeper form, definition, and purpose to the relationship. Three points in the distance is the first sign of stability between marks. For three there is promise inherent and growth assured.  Productivity heads three in any direction. From here we find the Empress a mediator and conduit to create new dimensions for core relationships. Empress is synthesis.


One can hope in resolve by Empress. She can internalize and transform issues yielding a solution that is more relevant than the coldness of intellectual problem solving. She is more akin to water than steel. Swells of emotion may test her personal grounding or motivate her rule. Rationalization and study may have no influence on her mind. For me, clarity formed in emotional psychosis is one of the dark sides of initiation for her rites. This is nothing The Fool, who is foolish for Christ, does not know. Both know spirit and act out of that well of God’s presence. Despite Empress’ presumed isolation, she sits in that tarot window with God quietly through the afternoon. Presented flawlessly in regal dress, her body runs a continuous gauntlet through a test like no other in creation. The test is the toll and passage that comes through blood and water. Empress conceals something darker veiled and more visceral than I knew before.

I cannot wonder but look into the Empress and stare at her stomach. Searching for a tell tale bump on the midsection, I am determined to find a sign of her fertility. I probe her posture with a careful eye and seek a sign of comfort within her hidden nudity. For that, I comfort in her. Comfort in one’s skin is part of a full realization of the feminine self. It took me years into adulthood to take the full mirror test. Learning not to be ashamed of my body became a conviction to be proud and knowledgeable of the physical that is woman. Also, looking at her, there is no confusion of gender roles or a suggestion of presences condoned as an assault on masculinity. I see her as a full, realized, and recognized as woman.

Instead of solely strength of mind, she is also strength of body. Still, being familiar with the female court cards, I wonder if this power Empress resides in is shallow. I see in her an achievement of mind and soul reconciling them with the body. Some days we sit in dictates of the flesh – spirit willing or not. We wonder whether we are soul with a body or a body with a soul. I have asked myself this periodically for years to gauge how ethically I am living. I have heard others vocalize opinions about issues of womanhood and I find myself aloof to their arguments and detached from the flashpoint to my core.  There are days I realize flesh is a joy. Other days, I am reticent being told that flesh is the ultimate conception of God. What disembodied spirit does not clamor for emotions and affairs in the flesh? To me, elevating flesh over soul would be the call of dead spirits. Separation of body and soul had me wandering the corridors of houses and buildings seeking to settle my drive.  My body walked behind quietly stepping feet gently to echo the path I was skulking. Then, upon much healing, it was my mind that kept me relatively whole. The flexibility and understanding learned allowed my soul rest in the shade.  I learned to accept that I had a dark side that tended my health and safety as much as the blessing of the spirit. In the church where I got baptized, during altar calls, the light by the podium was too bright to withstand.  By my eye, the cool light by the piano was on the calmly defined side. In this stillness is where I kneeled. The Empress, as an ideal champion for the ends of flesh, lingers in my hand like a pornographic photo pinched between index finger and thumb. It is not the depiction that matters, but what lay in the inherent suggestion between pose and mystery.  I gaze closely and shudder looking for kinship. Meanwhile, I rise to the bedroom mirror only to stare at my face and muse at crow’s feet in the corners of my eyes. Even I know, by instinct, that I must take refuge in the Queen of Epees. Empress in my right hand, I find the feminine breeding contempt.

©N.A. Jones      2017       All Rights Reserved


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Cooking, As Requested

Posted by Tespid on February 17, 2017

Friday, February 17, 2017

6:13 p.m.

The crux in enjoyment is the bowl. Make it big and beautiful.

2-3 ounces of Mung Bean noodles (vermicelli). Prepare it by soaking the noodles in boiled water for 10-20 minutes. Return the kettle to the flame with more water. When the whistle blows for the second time pour 2 cups of boiling water into a pyrex measuring cup. Add 2 tablespoons of light brown sugar, 1 teaspoon of chili oil, and 2 teaspoons of powdered chicken bouillon. Mix well and set aside.

Chop two chicken legs into smaller section. Even take the time to debone several piece that have large deposits of meat hanging from the bone. Place in a ceramic container and season the meat by lightly dusting once or twice and turning with the following spices:

Kosher Salt, Cinnamon, Paprika, Allspice, Garlic Powder, Onion Powder, Cumin, Mexican Chili Powder, Black Pepper, and Coriander.

Oil a deep roasting pan with 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Arrange the chicken in the pan and broil on low for five minutes then on high for five minutes. Turn the chicken over and finish cooking by broiling for three minutes more.

As the time frees between preparations, take time to finely chop 2 tablespoons of peanuts, 1/4 cup of fresh cilantro, and 1/4 cup finely julienned white onion.

Assembly: One clean large bowl, place noodles in the bowl to provide a base. Add  less than 1/2 of the chicken, pour in broth, dress with the peanuts, cilantro, and onion.


Notes: 1) Salt is not heavily added through the recipe. Though it is only seasoned on the chicken, the powdered chicken bouillon contains a large amount of salt. Taste the final assembly before adding more. I chose not to add additional salt. The flavors stood out very well without that. 2) When assembling the bowl, I poured some of the liquid fat accumulated in the roasting pan. The overall taste was mild to my palette but complex enough to satisfy my soul. I will be eating the leftovers before midnight. For another take on chicken noodle soup I am happy with the outcome. I am positive that I will be making and tweaking again to perfection.

~Jain Sioux Anne Fellps

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Posted by Tespid on February 16, 2017

Shrine of the Black Madonna and Grottos


First, I toyed with the idea. Then I almost let it devolve into oblivion. What caught me before I took out the trash was a handful of requests to recount my attachment to the Shrine of the Black Madonna and Grottos in Eureka, Missouri.  My tale begins years earlier to the cross country trip. After several nights of writing I discovered the driving image for the tour was found in a nightmare that ingrained itself on my active intellect since high school. Dreams have been a large part of my spiritual studies since childhood. The tendency for one vision in the night to influence my mind has been a rule of defense for most of my life. The image also gives me fodder for artistic creation for twenty years and awareness in daily life for over thirty years. Though the dream symbology does not always make itself easily understood upon waking, in the end, the decisions I make always seem timely and provide an escape from fate’s grasp but not the weight of her lessons.

The Rat

I wake standing in the middle of a small living room. Two plastic covered white couches line the far wall while a small love seat and divan flank the sides. I stand in front facing guests. Four people walk into the room. Two men are followed by one woman and a tall human sized rat man with a long tail. The human sized rat walks in and sits on the love seat. I am repulsed at the matted hair and fact that he seems a real being and not a man in a suit. On first responses, I think him Satan and as he tries to take over a conversation that has been the ebb and flo of the night for hours. In hindsight I am sure he is the only thing in the white room that has a profound odor of rot. The others smell of skin, dirt, and sweat. Despite my fright they continue to talk. Maybe, just maybe I am not here for them. Maybe they cannot see me. Blackness. I walk into the kitchen. The walls and cabinetry are all white to the core. A man stands to the left of the sink. His wings relax behind him and four faces float in white light to the right of his head. An older woman in her 50’s stands in front of him to my right posturing a guilt trip for him to fall into. I try to interrupt but she refuses to stop harping on him. The floating heads begin to talk. I recognize my face in one of the floating balls of light. He is panicking and fighting not to lose his mind. I cannot seem to divert her arguments to provide him a way to leave. I wake knowing the rat took over and will not be leaving the scene any time soon.

The Journey

I pledged to myself that year to take another route up north instead of taking the familiar route through Arkansas. One idea I planned all summer was to take several roadside stops en route to Ohio. Driving alone with an extra week for insulation makes for excitement and personal accomplishment. On my first day I made it to the other side of Oklahoma. Before leaving the state, I saw the signs for the Shrine of the Black Madonna over twenty miles before crossing into Missouri .  After exiting into Eureka, I pulled in at a corner store. One tip from the man outside the gas station and I found the Shrine in ten minutes. After parking I wandered the site looking for somewhere to register and someone with which to speak. I found neither. What I did find was a tent with glass encased icons and a large series of grottos.

 I started at the end and worked backwards. If memory serves me correctly I started with Saint Francis. Walking up to the shrine, I paced my steps by walking slow. One thing that was obvious as I slowed my temperament was that felt my emotions change. Raving awareness was not what I needed to connect with the imagery. What I needed was to approach with humility and patience. This was not art to gawk at or criticize with a contemporary’s panacea to correct for social suitability. It was art to meditate on quietly. The name of the cement image did not matter. It was the design of each grotto that was meant to be a passage of consciousness as well as physical transformation. The sights, textures, and smells worked me to the bone. With every step this inner quiet caught flame and consumed me. This was a journey years before I took the step into baptism. It was not a surprise that the lingering guilts, passions, and appetites conjured up an appearance of something long gone. It was the rat. By the time I had grasped what my senses where telling me around the second grotto, there he was leering at each statue and lounging beneath Saint Josephs hands. I said nothing, but continued to walk the grotto. After that with every step through the grounds I became tired and extremely sleepy. Whether I had eaten lunch I do not know, but what I remember is quickly moving through the rest of the grounds to get back to the car.

The Exorcism

Driving the car back up to the exit ramp to continuing my journey is clouded in my mind. What I do remember is seeing the human faced rat sitting next to me in the passenger’s seat. Why he manifested this far away from home I did not know. I truly had no clue. I do recall how difficult it was driving for the next five miles. Those five minutes still terrify me. Despite driving, my attentions went to the vision in the car far more than the 18 wheelers quickly passing me down the highway. When the rat finally jumped into the back seat, I exited the highway and pulled off on a hill covered in gravel. After turning off the car, I jumped in the backseat and dug for my medicine bundle that was filled of little pieces of this and that. I packed that medicine bundle specifically for this trip. It was to be the foundation for an altar in my bedroom once I got back to Ohio. I only took the best of semi-precious stones from my bags and pieces of nature collected from my travels between school and home. One piece in the bundle was a small statue attributed to the Egyptian Goddess Bast.  I bought the painted piece of plaster from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. It served its purpose like a dreamlike portion of history. Outside the car, bag in hand, I threw piece after piece of stone, seed, and bone on to the graveled hill. I took to Bast with a heavy right foot. She broke into three pieces. I tossed the piece one after each other over the ravene.

The “big” dream of cats occupies a base in my memory. The place I lay was immediately covered in cats from kitchen to bedroom as soon as the front door swung open. The white couch was inundated. How could I not determine it a sign of fidelity and totem back then. For now I rest in knowing childhood dreams are potent unto death. I blamed Bast that afternoon once leaving the shrine. I did it without thinking. I forgot that rats lay prey to cats. I could have asked but would have been indebted beyond my understanding. Her destruction was the sacrifice that caused the rat never to show his face again.

Resolve and Expanse

I see a large piece of rose quartz in my hand. It is the piece I ground into the hill with my right heel. Right now the quartz’ presence is only in my imagination, but I remember scrying. I also remember leaving comfort for the dead. I remember the rat knowing that I did not battle my demon/monster the ways I have before. I presumed for decades that the field of battle in dreams ends at the boundaries of sleep and wake. He, the rat, is elsewhere, waiting. I do not flaunt my Chinese Zodiac birth symbol in anyone’s face. If the human rat is an aspect of myself,  I have not seen a connection in over twenty years. There is still time to learn though. Still time indeed.


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Tip Jar: No Cost or Tariff

Posted by Tespid on February 11, 2017

I am posting for someone’s sake, not my own. My ultimate hope is that others will find todays blog useful. Before I begin the matter , let me frame in a quote from friend, “You’re damn if you do, damned if you don’t.”

From friend I found out it is a common practice between mother-daughter, father-son, mother-son, and father-daughter to commit murders. The connection between the two, besides blood, is usually incest. My first objection to friend’s recounting was the fact that some kids never fight their way out of such an obsessive and co-dependent relationship. Well, maybe, they can’t at a young age. Still, why they would not try again to leave at an older age is beyond my understanding. Continuing, the murders happen at homeless shelters. Friend says shelters are a hot spot for that to happen. Between the culprits, one said they were competing against each other for the most damage done.

I never thought about what security was like at a homeless shelter. I presumed there was more to be aware by getting to know the people inside the building. With this in mind, I remember doing someone an injustice. After dropping him off at a shelter one afternoon, I told him he would be alright. This I proffered after asking him what was wrong. “I’m scared,” he clearly spoke. “You’ll be fine,” I retorted getting back in the car. I may have sounded crass but in my defense little did he know I was about to lose everything. I did not want to burden him with my subsequent crash and burn. Besides, if I had know he was homeless to begin with, conversation the night before would have been different. In the distance and aftermath, I am apologizing. I never glamourized life on the street for or through anyone. I never knew the dangers of living to the bone had another face to know.

Safety first, Health second, Tell third.

~W.H. Tespid ERT

BTW: I also heard women in secure shelters are getting stalked and harassed by lesbians. They are demanding to be taken care of and supported. Several murders from both points of view have also been committed by that method.

Posted in How to be a Perp, The Underground Manuals, Tip Jar | Leave a Comment »

Poor #5

Posted by Tespid on February 8, 2017

Poor #5: Widdershin Sun

Widdershin Sun,

Stars plumb the earth within.

The steeple chimes “we come from stars

And shall return” before the earth is done.

E’en when fooled the darkness is replete;

I prefer to meet the devil on two feet.

Widdershin Sun

Stars plumb the earth within.

The steeple chimes “We come from stars

And shall return” before the earth is done.


I have lasted this long. It is some twenty years gone. Poverty was an illusion when I was in college. Having loans and grants to cushion me for dinner on a cold Monday night made a profound difference. The years lasted this way until the repayment period began and then you feel the pain. That is when a veil braced against reality shreds to pieces with every paycheck. Steak is a top shelf dream for five years. The low brow end of London broil is a half inch bouillon cube half dissolved in luke warm water. With no kettle or microwave, tap water after a two minute faucet run serves its purpose clearly. Necessity is the mother of invention and I know now that where I am is a blessing more than the accepted burden of repaying a debt.

Last week I was ungrateful and frustrated. I cringed at the thought of asking for money. Begging seems to be for those who cannot commit to the value in menial labor. “I may not be able to repay you, but I can work for you in lieu of payment. All my labor value is a commitment for cash,” I muse, “Can we bargain that way?” There are a few less things I can do these days. My body can no longer handle a yoke over long term means. I try not to pair poverty and sickness as long term lovers, but I have aged. My body is now toned for accuracy, not speed. Slowing down is the rule of the day and I am angry for not being understood. I stood in the kitchen embarrassed for wanting to ask a wealthy individual for assistance. The pain in my mouth sparked a criticism out of desperation. I was curt and tried to kill the mental image of being a beggar. That image is not me. It never has been. Personally, the problem was in damning of the rich for not acknowledging my pain and helping me (read: paying for me) to return to good health. Are they not responsible for the rest of civilization with that much liquidity and reserve? Where are the non-profits? Where are the mutual help foundations? In my mind, I was entitled to health care and not to suffer under my current ills. I should be happy and healthy. Of my guilt and embarrassment is remembering the homeless man sitting in front of an abandoned building in the heart of downtown Detroit, Michigan. My guilt projected onto the African American in traditional African garb. Walking by the transient, he stopped only to kick the begging cup of change across the sidewalk while screaming, “Get a job”. Of my guilt and embarrassment is a friend deciding not to ask for money from her parents to help with bills. In her mind, she grappled with their wealth and her poverty for years. She finally understood that it is their money. They can do anything they want with it. She concluded that she was no one to tell anyone what to do with their finances. I understood her to say, “They earned it without me; who am I to demand anything?”

So, I leave it this way, other options exist. If I pray on anything, I reduce the chances of manifestation if I ask with so much specificity that the request is yoked down so heavy, it cannot move. Dental insurance came today courtesy of the federal government. It happened after an interview with a kind woman whom I was referred to by a relative. I have paperwork to read and phone calls to make. I am poor, but it is not like I cannot appreciate a helping hand in any guise. Last week I was embarrassed to sound like the stereotypes of poor people I watched on television, in movies, and on city streets. The reality of those characters words and feeling where uncomfortably true. I also did not want to face what it meant to wait. I did not want to face despair and risk with no direction to go. Today is D(Dallas) on zero (D/0). I am hoping this labyrinth of access and survival opens up to a broad vista soon. Even if it does not, an open sky is deep enough with promise.

~Jain Sioux Anne Fellps

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Tip Jar Freebie (+)

Posted by Tespid on February 5, 2017

I was told this one is too hot, but I’ll keep typing anyway. Toyota has a cadre of former employees trying to take over a row of certain towns in Texas. The former employees turned social activists are African American. I have also been told that they are all pedophiles. How they lost their jobs I do not know. I was told they refused to show up for work. Other pedophiles are also working for Toyota. This cadre of individuals are also known as pedophiles, but are white.

From what I gathered first hand is a residency game they are playing. They pay the mortgage at the home they bought, but they are seeking refuge in other parts of towns. Namely, they are trying to force themselves into a shadow residency in the poorer areas of all of the towns they live. Still, that is not the thick of it. These home owners, who are never in their official residence, also have a safe house in another county. The safe house is never spoken of, but when the home is needed they take refuge there so no one will ever find them.

I heard this. I did not personally witness the divulge. The source is involved and I choose to preserve a distance. I do not know the labor and HR perspective on this, but the regaling caught my attention enough to post.

~Jain Sioux Anne Fellps TAMU

~W.H. Tespid ERT

BTW: I just heard from the neighborhood kids. Apparently what is popular for parents is starting a microbrewery to pair with brothel services. Friend says there is a high and frequent fire risk associated with home brewery. Maybe the occasion calls for the fire department and possibly CPS.

If these type of tips are what surround the new moon and new year, I am afraid of what the full moon will yield. Until then I will be thinking methodically, watching steps, and quieting rage through March.

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Menu, As Requested

Posted by Tespid on February 3, 2017

Menu, As Requested

Friday, February 3, 2017

6:56 p.m.


Broiled Tilapia

Apples and Sweet Potatoes with Ginger

Roasted Peanuts and Cashews with spiced honey glaze


Wash, core, and slice into thin wedges two golden delicious apples. Place into a medium pan. Also scrub and slice into thin wedges one medium sweet potato. Add that to the pan as well. Pour into the pan ½ of water. On medium heat, boil until soft and the water completely evaporates. Make the bulk reduce by using a potato masher. Once soft, push to one side of the pan. Melt one and one half tablespoons of butter in the open side. Add in one quarter teaspoon of powdered ginger and one eighth of a cup of granulated sugar. Brown the mixture slowly.

While the apples and sweet potatoes boil, rinse a fresh fillet with water. Place in an oven safe dish. Drizzle on both sides of the fish one teaspoon of lemon juice and one teaspoon of olive oil. Finish the preparation by adding a dash of kosher salt and freshly grated pepper to each side. Broil each side on low for 5-10 minutes. Remove from oven and place on a plate.

Place one half cup dry roasted peanuts and one cup of raw cashews in a bowl. Melt two tablespoons butter, one eighth cup honey, one quarter teaspoon cinnamon, one quarter teaspoon Mexican chili powder in a small sauce pan. Pour the hot mixture over the nuts. Coat the nuts thoroughly. Take a small cookie sheet and cover the bottom with a piece of parchment. Spread the nuts over the paper. Place in the oven on a lower rack than the fish. Allow to brown. Next, gently turn with a wooden spoon. Place back in the over until they turn a dark golden brown again. Allow the nuts to cool. Place with the fish and apples as an accent or use as a late night snack.


Note: Today, I only cooked what I was craving. It is not very fancy, nor is it difficult to make. For midwinter I am in love with fish and apple on a Friday night. Consider this my personal substitute for a hamburger, fries, and a chocolate malted. The oatmeal raisin cookies I baked make for an easier weekend as well.


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Menu, As Requested

Posted by Tespid on February 2, 2017

Menu, As Requested

Thursday, February 2, 2017

6:51 p.m.


Fish Tacos with broiled tilapia, seasoned avocado mash, cilantro, queso fresco, and green salsa

Seasoned French Fries

Slice one large potato into thin strips (re: shoe string cut potatoes). Place into about two inches of cold oil in a frying pan. Turn the heat on medium and allow the potatoes to cook slowly and thoroughly. When the potatoes float, they are done. Otherwise, let the potatoes brown around the edges for crispness. Drain on a paper towel and lightly season with salt, pepper, and garlic powder.

While the potatoes are cooking, set the oven on low broil. Prepare two tilapia fillets by squeezing lemon juice and one teaspoon of corn oil on both sides. Complete the preparation by dusting both sides lightly with salt and pepper. Broil until light brown on both sides. The fish will have no pink or red on either side. Focus on removing the fish from the oven while it is still flaky. Keep warm until you are ready for assembling the tacos.

Take one avocado, mash and season lightly with salt, pepper, garlic powder, and lemon juice. Set aside. Chop two to three tablespoons of cilantro. Set aside. Warm four tacos on a griddle. Spread one tablespoon of avocado mash down the center. Follow with half of a tilapia fillet. Sprinkle with cilantro and a little queso fresco. Finish off with a teaspoon of green salsa. Plate the tacos in a row across a dinner dish with French fries to the side. Serve. Eat.

After Midnight

Cucumber and apple with vinaigrette

Wash and core one golden delicious apple and slice into small chunks. Place into a bowl. Wash and core one cucumber. Slice into quartered moons. Place with the apples. Crush and finely dice one garlic clove. Add to the bowl. Season with one tablespoon  of vinegar, one tablespoon of olive oil, ¼- ½ teaspoon of salt, two to three gratings of fresh pepper, ¼ teaspoon of red pepper flakes. Turn the cucumber and apple in the vinaigrette. Place into a small container and seal with a lid. Give the mixture a few shakes and place in the refrigerator to chill.








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Tip Jar $12.74 & Milk Money Report

Posted by Tespid on February 1, 2017

Just got reminded that some parents are having their children go to school. The problem is that the supervising district expelled those children over a year ago. I did not know the implications until a few minutes ago. Namely inferring something like Columbine happening or worse. Part of the problem, I was told, lies with the local prostitutes. Namely most of them have been told the same about their own children not being allowed to enroll in the school district.

I do not know how this all fits together but:

  • A while back there was a rash of incest issues coming from prostitute’s families.
  • The city to drastic action on behalf of the town, those committing acts, and the children involved.
  • Talk about IDs for all the legally enrolled school children hit the street about ten minutes ago. Suggestions from photos along with names going as far as id numbers and fingerprints.
  • I heard about women screaming the issue up the highway to get to the superintendent and school district headquarters. That is over twenty miles away.

Something is coming. I do not know what. Either way, I’ll make an attempt t o post with a follow up.

~Adir Asueno


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Recipe, As Requested

Posted by Tespid on January 29, 2017


Place two sweet Italian sausages in an oven and broil on low. About five to ten minutes each side. Place six cups of water and ½ teaspoon of salt on the stove top to boil. While the sausages cook, boil enough spaghetti for two servings to a little more soft then al dente. When the pasta is finished, drain, and season with garlic infused olive oil. (Take one finely diced clove of garlic and toss in one to two tablespoons of olive oil heated in a pan.) Finish the pasta by lightly dusting with parmesan cheese. Set aside and keep warm until needed. In a medium frying pan sauté one finely chopped small onion and two finely chopped garlic cloves in two tablespoons of olive oil and one tablespoon of butter. Add one tilapia fish fillet, 1/8 of teaspoon of oregano, dash of salt, and a grating or two of pepper to the onions.  When the fish is flaky, dowse the fillet with one tablespoon of vodka and one tablespoon of chicken broth. Add 1/8 cup of freshly chopped parsley to the fish. Allow a few minutes for the temperature to readjust through all ingredients. Meanwhile, take the sausages and cut into one inch sections. Plate a healthy helping of pasta into a large past bowl. Place the fish and onion in the middle. Run a line of the sausages from one end of the plate to the other. Serve warm.

This recipe is designed for one person. Besides one donut and glass of chocolate milk in the morning, the pasta dish was the only meal I ate. I slept through the night with no bloating or frequent trips to the bathroom. For ease, just think of this dish as pasta aglio y olio with broiled sausages and pan fried fish. The onions and parsley are for taste and extension. Broccoli or spinach could expand the fare in a positive way as well.

~Jain Sioux Anne Fellps


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Menu, As Requested (+)

Posted by Tespid on January 29, 2017

S (Anarchy of Angels)


Menu, As Requested


Dinner and Dessert
Baked Chicken

425 degrees Fahrenheit for one hour

Rice Pilaf with broccoli, onion, garlic, and chicken broth

Cook one small chopped onion, one large chopped garlic clove in 2 tablespoons of olive oil until transparent. Add one cup of rice scrubbed with water and one more tablespoon of oil to the pan. Saute brown. Add 1/2 cup of finely chopped broccoli. Stir. Add 1 1/2 cups of chicken broth, 1/2 of red wine, 1/2 cup of water. Boil 5 minutes. Reduce heat and cook until all the liquid is absorbed.

Fried Apples with ginger

Core and slice two golden delicious apples. Cook down in a saucepan in 1/2 of water. After twenty minutes or when all of the water has evaporated, mash the apples. A 1/8 cup of white sugar and 1/2 teaspoon of powdered ginger. Mix together and lower heat. Try not to let the sugar caramelize in the pan unless you know how to control the heat to prevent burning.

Sweet Iced Tea with Lemon and Sugar
Ice Water
Caramel Popcorn
Note: Gentle Understanding about Trump: His actions are not understood completely on the surface. There are many layers of inference and risk. Try looking at a drawing by M.C. Escher. There are multiple dimensions hidden behind the initial view. 120 days may be a quick direction into war. I’m guessing at two locations considering how long the President may act without Congress determining funding. The current refusal of entry reflects that, especially if a strike by insurgents was detected. If I remember correctly from research over the past nine years, Yemen is a training headquarters for Al Qaeda. If going to the source and acting quickly is President Trump’s current approach proves him a hardliner not afraid to do the work at the behest of being politically correct. Not to be rude, but sometimes our little lives need adjust to bigger concerns. Being outside the United States for the next three months may be an actual advantage. Presidents and Prime Ministers cannot always disclose the affairs of office if not but for the interests, protection, and survival of the general welfare.

This is just an observation. Things are not always what they seem. Take the bones he’s thrown in the media and make due. He is not the idiot that you may assume. More is at play. Latitude may be needed.

Fluted Frog, E-squire


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Poor #4

Posted by Tespid on January 27, 2017

Poor #4

I choose not to don my armor over the past few nights. I left it tucked away on the bookshelf behind my bed. Part of the chain mail comprises of forgetting that “religion is the opiate of the masses.  At one point that concept perched on my left wisdom tooth.  Its rooted grip made everything hard to chew and swallow. It never hurt so hard until I began to forego sleep and fine moments of repartee into early morning became monologue. If ever I knew that I was safe in poverty’s reach into the masses, it is now.

Looking at where I have landed I can forgive that little white girl as a sacrifice of another age and live on to find personal value. My anger at her beauty has begun to leave. Why? I am seeing my appearance differently and reevaluating my initial ire. The flesh healed over from the scars, cuts, and burns of my youth reminds me I am not afraid to take risks. I rarely sulk after pain. Lastly, I continue to fight even when blooded. Knowing I am tough and resilient makes for clout from the baseball field into the boardroom.

Our team was first to bat. I waited until the fourth batter played to try my hand at a national pastime. Since the two weeks of school when we played softball in physical education, I still had not learned to hit a ball. Today, the guy on the mound would devour me easily with a clean pitch. Strike one! My head dropped and most of my hopefulness left as well. As the ball landed back in his small hands I swung at the air trying to pretend I knew what I was doing. Second pitch up, I watched the ball float. I stifled my urge to beat something in with the bat then I swung meeting contact. I ran while watching the ball land close to the pitcher’s mound. When the pitcher let the ball fly to first I began confusing baseball with freeze tag. I ducked as low as I could manage and slid into first on hot blacktop and rocks.

It was the last time I watched baseball that lingered in my head. It must be. The last time I watched a runner slide into a base looked sophisticated, elegant, and a sign that you knew what you were doing. In other words, I was trying to show off. For whom, I do not know. A problem was for me between sports and the color of my skin- others seemed to think I was a fast runner or an excellent basketball player. That day on the blacktop was no different. I fell into catering to a stereotype out of fear and desperation. I made few friends at summer camp. Neither quantity nor quality mattered in making acquaintances into friends. I was always the one asking for inclusion only to be left behind on the bleachers. I began to fend for myself after that. The blood sacrifice at my knee knows it. The scar has healed over many a year. Seeing the keloi now it seems much smaller; just like my woes of adolescence.

By revisiting my marks, I am remembering that I am real. With each scar, I am still learning what it means to be human. Now, I can look and clean up my own blood. I know what pain feels like. I can still cry. I am familiar with death and my own mortality as well. My psyche is not a dead end, I continue to develop. I was not and continue to not be as sheltered as one might assume.

Battle scars count in all the subtle interviews, whether physical or mental. Learning to fight at this level below the poverty line, solutions cannot always mean to be solved through physical combat. Bending without being broken by force lends to longevity. A well educated tongue polishes armor as well as providing a healing balm to any damage to the body. Tending the scars that cannot be seen is where I sit right now. Old damage needs new assessments and little white girl seems vacuous again – at least on the outside. On the inside I think she’s been skewered throat to guilt many a day before I saw her. Now I know she needs looking after too.

No harm meant and please forgive me for seeing you a little more clearly today, than before.

~Jain Sioux Anne Fellps TAMU


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Poor #3

Posted by Tespid on January 24, 2017

Forgive my indignation of contemporary culture and artifact, but my reality has never been served there. Current culture’s fascination with entertainment seems the reason to use shock and disassociation to make a point. It is an excuse my settled bones cannot tolerate. Once upon a time, a long moment before smart phones and anything digital reached into human consciousness, I had time to myself. I did not linger at the behest of a telephone buzzer or the next CNN tweet. I did not pledge a whim into the disappearing depth of a LCD monitor anchored on the wall. At that time I warred with a loneliness that had a depth that competed with the Mariana Trench. I was lost in a sea of married suburbia and craved companionship. Contrary to what most sexually active singles do, I forewent the bar scene and sex clubs.  I choose to well in passive rejection, emotive neglect; spending many a night staring at the moon.

Back then, I built the foundations of being a solitaire. Working through emotions came through handwork, mostly by wrote and design. Then, I had no anchor except for a King James Version of the Holy Bible and a handful of personal journals from college. Nothing seemed real in my parent’s home – a place that one would think to give solidity. Finding solace had to come by a different tack. Still, I am not one to ask to be introduced to their friend’s children. I am not one to hang out at the neighbor’s house asking (begging) for a little side work. I am not a bar fly and I never was one to prostitute. I did not know how to solve the problem. Little did I understand that my soul worked on the problem from the very beginning. It started unlearning. Being afraid of silence and stillness would soon end. Whenever I could eke out a moment to myself, quiet time started to correct the daily impeding psychosis.

A late weekday afternoon in my room, the façade crashed and I pleaded the air for a solution. Two pronouncements later and a sweet calm repose settled into my hips and steadied my hands. I pledged chastity and poverty to a God I barely knew. Knowing no way out of my problems I turned to one who could sustain me even at the risk of changing to everyone. As my mind began to rearrange itself, I soon started calling myself a nun if not for the sake that I was getting none compared to my counterparts. Whether my friends were meeting men and making more money than I ever would no longer mattered. I was positive that better for me was to come; all I need was to be patient.

Twenty some odd years later metered with private vows after midnight, I am still sustained and rooted. I have my arguments. I have my doubts. At one pointed I begged the Christ to deny my vows and let me make money. Lord knows I was in need and I also forgot that there are other ways besides money to get things done. I had lost my job, but I also lost over one hundred pounds and afforded a beautiful white cotton blouse with ruffles. I may be a simpleton, but my soul rested in that shirt. I finally felt pretty. Lord administers to deeper needs as well.

Before poverty’s wake crashes at your bedroom door, adhere to a few common sense rules: 1) Preserve your body and tend to your overall health daily; 2) sex may not be the best option as a means of intimacy. Taking into account the amount of forced prostitution I have witnessed since 2008 and former President Obama’s cut of funds into Federal STD programs in the same year, I can only conclude that sex is not a priority for longevity; 3) No matter the federal or state program, job or hobby, save what you can. Even the smallest amount can be useful in the long run. Find a little box, a jar or can. Place it somewhere you will not forget. Add something with every purchase. From a penny to a dollar, save a little for yourself.

Note: I tell you one way or another, sometimes not so direct, so you can apply even the smallest bit to build a personal approach to living. Think authentic to meter to your soul. Details dictate to think refinement when appearances are more important than content. Daily put to task you faith as “faith without works is dead”. It will reinforce the fundament that is your frame and bring you before men as able minded as well as able bodied.

~Jain Sioux Anne Fellps TAMU

Note: Just a question…Considering the coverage of the recent inaugural unrest, what did the conservatives do on the day Obama was sworn in?



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Tip Jar est. $2.14

Posted by Tespid on January 24, 2017

I got asked to post twice over, not to forget the added perspective from the inside:

If you are a black male mathematics teacher employed from kindergarten to university, you are a drug dealer. One of the explanations why stems from economics. According to these teachers, the poor kids need math, not the ones who have access to money. From my source, there was a hint of a “new math”, but I did not ask.

W.H. Tespid  ERT

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Tip Jar +$.37

Posted by Tespid on January 22, 2017

News from a friend tells that there is no housing across the United States. Thousands are on a futile search everyday in hopes of even an efficiency to house four plus Fido. The so-called lucky who found housing over two hours away from work are losing there jobs. Why? Because they forget and have no time to groom themselves. Some arrive at work without of shower or clean clothes. At the edge of being lost in a seedy rate (distance over time) is forgetting to put gasoline in their vehicle. Coasting on empty some seventy miles away from everything is becoming standard fare. So are the dead bodies found in stranded cars along the highway.

This seems to harken to a domino effect, but I am not sure were the final tile will lay. Meanwhile, I am back to musing over poverty and food. There must be something out on the ether that I can source before returning to the kitchen to work over my fascinations. I am desperate to place herbs for another year. Hoping the Italian oregano will last through another year. It has been two already.

Patience, self-determination, and grace.

W.H.Tespid ERT

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